The Room He Won't Leave
by Ivan the Bear
Summary: Less people come now. But I will never leave. I will never forget. YuriyxBoris


**A/N:** I have to say…I sort of felt like or something writing this ^___^; anywho, please enjoy this story though it may not make too much sense.

_This story is dedicated to **Awed-Reader** for being a simply amazing inspiration and a fantastic reviewer and, dare i say, friend._

**Warnings**: Non- Sensical-ness/Shounen-Ai

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or any of its characters.

**The Room He Won't Leave**

They were not rich. They were not poor. A group of lovers and friends and enemies alike gathered in a medium sized apartment above the frozen streets of Moscow, Russia. December 18th, 1994. Sipping their iced white wine, eating their homemade pizza. Chatting idly about things of which meant nothing to everyone and things that meant everything to no one. Some went on about the home on-goings. Wars. Government. Taxes. Others went on about such topics that barely scratched the surface. Changes in a friends physical appearance, height, weight, 'oh you cut your hair!'. but not a one conversation touched on anything more. Just everything less. Personal topics were not brought up. Not since…Sipping their iced white wine, eating their homemade pizza, the gathering of the worlds best beybladers was everything but a surface-scratching affair.

They were not poor. They were not rich. A group of lovers and friends alike gathered in an almost small apartment above the slick, frozen streets of Moscow, Russia. December 18th, 1995. Sipping their beers, their iced white wines, eating their homemade pizza. Chatting idly about things that no longer meant a thing to anyone. Things at home were no longer a topic of discussion. Infact, discussion itself was almost non-existent. As it were, words were rarely traded. Words that did leave the mouth of one, barely reached the ears of another. The pizza is good. The wine is cold. Comfort for the dearly beloved. Sipping their iced white wine, their beers, eating their homemade pizza, the gathering of a few of the worlds best beybladers was everything but smile-inducing.

They were not rich. A group of friends gathered in a small apartment above of the frozen, blizzard-covered streets of Moscow, Russia. December 18th, 1997. Sipping their waters, dreaming of the old homemade pizza. Words were no longer exchanged. The silence fell upon the few that breathed in the cold, dark room. Sipping their waters, staring down the ground, the gathering of those left of the worlds best beybladers was nothing.

"Yuriy?"

The first word to break the silence. To break the four year silence that had befallen those who had stayed. As the years had inched past, less and less of those members of the winnings teams had showed up. And now only five joined the red-haired Russian in this gathering of sorts. Empty eyes that had once resembled sparkling ice crystals, turned his head slowly to the voice that had dared to speak. Broken eyes met a broken soul. He needn't say a thing. Not when they knew all he had left to say was what had already been said.

"You miss him."

Not a question. Not a statement. The silence breaking comment seemed to add to the tension that had never left the room. The room. He had lived there, breathed there. He had laughed, cried, and fallen in love there. He had fallen ill there. He had prayed there. He had died there. What was had been lost. What could have been had been buried. If all had thought ice surrounded them before, they knew of nothing colder now. Yuriy did not reply. He ran his eyes slowly over the five remaining individuals. Ivan. Sergei. Takao. Max. and Rei. This was it. Every year. The people became less. The money stopped coming in. his world was ending.

_But it had already ended four years ago. There was nothing left now….was there?_

Broken eyes for a broken slip of paper from an old newspaper. Words that had meshed to mean nothing in his eyes.

The years would pass. People would stop coming. Money would stop coming in. necessities would no longer be necessary. But some things would never change. He would never leave this room. He would never forget. He would never find another. Carefully taking one last look at the newspaper article before folding the slip of paper back up, he made his yearly promise.

I will never forget.

_Boris Kuznetsov  
1975-1994  
Mos., Russ.  
Friend. Lover. Beyblader.  
At 3:45 PM on December 18__th__, 1994; Boris Kuznetsov died of AIDS and  
a severe case of pneumonia. The 19 year old Russian native had been  
sick for many weeks before passing on; leaving behind his friends and lover._

Clasping his hands in his lap as he glanced out the small, single window in the room, Yuriy allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

_**I will never forget.**_

**- - -END- - - **

**A/N: I have no idea where this idea came from. But please read and review!!**


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